Barman

EXCERPT

CHAPTER 1

I WAS GETTING a little panicked. Hundreds of unsolicited resumes and cover letters, two dozen on-campus interviews, seven callbacks, and I had nothing, nada, zilch. The callback interview with O'Connell & Price was starting to feel like my last hope. O'Connell & Price, based in Philadelphia, was your basic white-shoe large general-practice law firm. Most of the associates graduated from top law schools, the firm's clients were gigantic corporations and wealthy investors, and the firm handled sexy, complex legal work. O'Connell & Price was exactly what I wanted in a summer internship.

The callback interview was nothing special. Like most, it lasted four-plus hours and included five interviews, with everyone from the recruiter to a senior partner, plus lunch. Dennis Braise, a senior associate with the firm, was my fifth and final interview. He was in his early thirties. Like the rest of the attorneys I met that morning, he dressed and looked rich. He wore an expensive dark suit and was perfectly manicured. During our interview, Braise reminded me of the Cheshire cat from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. At first I found his demeanor a nice change of pace, but by the third or fourth question, I wanted to smack that exaggerated grin right off his face. To be fair, by the time I met him, I was all talked out. After having given the same answers to the same questions four times, I couldn't possibly have come off as genuine. But for whatever reason, he liked me.

"I'm not supposed to tell you this," he confided as he walked me through the reception area, which looked more like a museum with its fine art and white marble floors, "but I gave you a five-point-oh. That's a perfect score. The firm doesn't even want us to give those."

"That's great. I appreciate that," I said.

Then he began whispering: "We're meeting later this afternoon to discuss everyone who has interviewed with us this week. If I learn anything else, I'll give you a call." I thanked him for the umpteenth time and stepped into the elevator feeling as good as you can about the process.

Three hours later, Dennis Braise called personally to inform me that an official summer-associate offer would arrive in a few days. I'd landed myself a superb summer job following my second year of law school. Praise the Lord.

"Meanwhile, here's to an expensive dinner on O'Connell and Price, Alex. We'd like to take you out and talk to you about the firm. How about steaks and cigars this Thursday evening at Morton's? Wear a jacket. I'll meet you at the bar."

I hung up with Dennis and scribbled down, "Thurs., eight p.m., Morton's, jacket," and, staring down at the suit that I was still wearing from the interview, I wrote and underlined, "No blue suit, no red tie." Finally, I had an offer.

I'd underestimated just how competitive these internships were. Part of the allure was that they paid remarkably well--summer associates were paid at a first-year associate's rate. The money I stood to make in one summer could subsidize an entire semester of tuition. I was relieved. I was thrilled. I was important. I mattered.

That evening I arrived fifteen minutes early. Dennis was already at the bar crouched over a drink.

"Mr. Wellen. Good to see you. He'll have a Finlandia vodka gimlet with a twist," he said to the bartender, then to me, "Let's have these, and then we can sit down at the table and feast. Have you ever had a gimlet?"

I hadn't. I thanked him for the invitation. "So, are we waiting for anyone else for dinner?"

"Maybe one other guy in Litigation. I invited him earlier this afternoon. I tried to grab a couple of other associates on my way out of the office, but no one was around. I guess that's a good thing. You see . . . eight o'clock on a Thursday night, and everyone's already left the office. The big-firm lawyer life doesn't have to be all that bad . . . just mine." He took a sip of his drink and complained about his workload and the incompetents who worked for him. We finished our gimlets, grabbed a table, and ordered another round.

The conversation started off sedate, but by the time we received our appetizers and a third round, the dialogue had become much more frank. Now Dennis was sounding off about the internal politics of making partnership, and confessing the firm's dirty little secrets.

"Yeah, it's a good thing the hiring committee smartened up and gave you an offer. For whatever reason, they haven't made any other Temple Law offers yet this year. I hope you decide this is the right place. If you don't, I'm not sure whether they'll make any more offers to Temple."

Excuse me. Why exactly did the hiring committee have to "smarten up"? Why wasn't Temple getting the offers? And why should that affect my decision?

It was all U.S. News & World Report's fault. The magazine published an annual law school survey that categorized every accredited U.S. law school in one of four quartiles. When U.S. News first published the report in 1987, it gained instant notoriety. For years the legal community had been clamoring for some guidelines. Now it had an industry standard. Dennis Braise, for example, was Tier 1. He had graduated from the University of Pennsylvania Law, one of U.S. News's top fifty schools.

On the other hand, Temple Law was not among the top fifty accredited law schools. It was one of the top schools in the next best fifty, Tier 2 (read: second rate). It didn't matter that Temple's trial advocacy program was ranked above that of Yale, Harvard, Cornell, and every other Tier 1 law school in the country. Who cared if Temple offered its students riveting lectures from accomplished professors, a diverse curriculum, and hundreds of international programs, legal clinicals, and internships? None of this improved the U.S. News ranking. Year after year Temple bore the same brand: Tier 2.

It seemed a Tier 2 ranking was a tough badge to shake. The most significant factor U.S. News used to settle on its ranking was reputation. They surveyed hundreds of influential deans, faculties, lawyers, hiring partners, and judges and asked them to rank every law school. Those personal opinions counted toward 40 percent of the total ranking. Nothing seemed to change those opinions. Temple Law, like every other non-Tier 1 law school, had a stigma attached to it. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy--once a Tier 2, always a Tier 2.

The remaining 60 percent of each ranking was divided among three factors: faculty resources, career-placement success, and selectivity. Faculty resources included everything from how much money a law school spent on each student, to the student-teacher ratio, to how many books were in the law library. From what I could tell, Temple's faculty resources were fine.

As for Temple Law's career-placement success, well, that was a problem. Over the years I'd taken some informal surveys throughout the Temple faculty, administration, and student body. My sense was that our employment rates were only slightly above average. The market was tough enough these days, but Temple Law students made it even harder. Many of my fellow students were locals. After graduation, they wanted to stay and practice in the Philadelphia area. That meant they limited their options. Perhaps if our career placement were more national in scope, our ranking would improve.

Temple's low ranking in the selectivity category was self-inflicted. The school was very selective, but not always in the classic sense of the word. The law school application read: "The Temple admissions committee is willing to recognize criteria not always reflected by grade point averages and LSATs [legal standardized admissions test scores]." This organic approach to admissions guaranteed Temple diversity, but it also guaranteed students with lower grades and lower LSATs, and accordingly, a lower overall ranking. Temple Law even admitted certain students using a discretionary process it called the Special Admissions and Curricular Experiment, or "SpACE" program. It was hardly an experiment anymore: Temple had been admitting applicants under the program since 1972. Someone who had overcome great financial obstacles or served in the Peace Corps, for example, was considered desirable despite low LSATs. There were more than a dozen other exceptions.

The fact was, I'd probably been admitted to Temple thanks to the SpACE program, likely under the category of "applicants with an undergraduate degree of unusual merit." I'd applied to Temple with an engineering degree from a state university and good grades but mediocre LSATs. I should have been the last person to complain about Temple's selectivity adversely affecting its overall ranking. But I did. To borrow from Groucho Marx, I guess I didn't want to be a part of any club that would have me as a member.

Then there was Temple's school slogan. It wasn't good: "I chose Temple." Actually, the entire slogan was: "I could have gone anywhere, but I chose Temple." The real question? Who chose that godforsaken slogan? It struck me as some sort of self-help expression meant to reassure everyone that Temple was a legitimate choice, that it wasn't my last choice, that it wasn't my safety school. I chose Temple, and it was a shame U.S. News didn't care.

I threw back the rest of my gimlet. Did I really need confirmation of my darkest insecurity? Yes. "Why do you think Temple law students are getting snubbed in the interviewing process?" I asked Dennis.

"I dunno. The senior partners are all from the Ivy Leagues, and for some reason they're on this Ivy League kick. They want more Harvards, Yales, and U-Penns. Something about increasing overall percentages as compared to the other firms in the city. Last year we hired two Temples. The year before that, three. It's now some informal, unspoken rule. Hire only from the big schools.

"Look, I'm not trying to stress you out or say that it's right," he continued, "but I think they figure if they go out on a limb to make you an offer and you decline, they'll look stupid. To whom, I don't know. But they'll take it personally. You just do what you gotta do."

The mixture of Dennis's blatantly elitist comments and the vodka gimlets was starting to make me feel nauseated. I excused myself to go to the men's room. At the sink I began throwing cold water on my face. I was alone.

"You are so drunk," I said in the mirror as I rubbed my entire face with both hands. "Soooo drunk. What am I doing? I've gotta get a grip. Got-to-get-a-grip. I gotta stay focused, not look drunk, ask smart questions."

The toilet flushed, and a waiter stepped out of a stall. He smiled. I smiled. I fixed my hair, straightened my tie and jacket, and went back to the table as composed as possible. Dennis and I finished our dinner. At the very end of the meal, he offered cigars and after-dinner liqueurs. At this point the decadence was getting obscene. I declined, and we stepped outside. It was freezing.

"So, what are you going to do now?" Dennis asked me after I thanked him for dinner.

"Tonight? I'm crashing. I have class in the morning."

"Well, I wouldn't worry about that too much anymore." He laughed. "Do you want to come back to my place?"

I paused. I couldn't be sure how long I was staring. I blinked. "Nahh," I said. "I appreciate it, definitely, but I'm just going to grab a cab and go to bed. Thanks. I appreciate it." Did I mention that I appreciated it?

"Another time, then. I just got this great Star Trek collector's telephone. It's shaped like the U.S.S. Enterprise, and it plays the Star Trek theme song when it rings."

"Good stuff," I said, trying to recall whether I'd feigned interest in Star Trek at any point in the evening. He smiled, I smiled, we shook hands, and I got into a cab.

"Ninth and Clinton," I told the cabdriver, and sank into my seat.

Oh my God. What just happened? What exactly just happened? I began piecing it together. A senior associate invited me back to his place to check out his Star Trek phone. Was that a euphemism? Had this man hit on me? Geez, it hadn't even occurred to me that we were going down that path.

"Oh no," I mumbled.

"Something wrong?" the cabdriver said over his shoulder.

"Nothing. Thanks," I said. Only then did it occur to me that perhaps I never had an O'Connell & Price offer to begin with. And if I had one before dinner, did it still stand? Did I still even want it?


From the Hardcover edition.